Lightning in a Jar: Cat’s Out of the Bag

Chapter 11:

“Well, hello! And, who might this delicious young man be?”

Speaking with his usual flare for the dramatic, as if he were emoting on a stage, and not standing in the musty hallways of our high school, Max was referring to James. We were amidst a flurry of students who were in the process of getting to their next class, some of whom couldn’t help but stare at us, drawn as they were by Max’s gregarious persona.

I blanched. Max and I had been talking about venturing into the city, when suddenly James appeared out of nowhere. Having completely ignored the coda I had established—no speaking to me at school (except in geometry, of course)—James had nonchalantly greeted me as if I were any old friend whom he’d bumped into between classes.

Only, I wasn’t.

I was, however, in a clandestine relationship with him.  Emphasis on clandestine. Private. Mum’s the word, and all that.

Since that day in the park, James and I had become practically inseparable. Outside of school, that is. No one knew or suspected one iota. We’d meet surreptitiously after school, taking walks through his secluded, tree-shaded neighborhood. Then we’d head to his home, and slip under the covers of his bed. No going all the way, mind you–I wasn’t ready for that–just a lot of hot and heavy, shall we say, breathing. You get the picture.

I couldn’t get enough of him. When we were together, I felt more buoyant, more adventurous, and yes, more alive. Happier than I’d been in ages. Still, I’d tell no one about our relationship. As far as I was concerned, that’s how it had to be, mostly because of the embarrassment I felt in being with a younger guy. The last thing I wanted was to let the cat out of the bag. Still, every time we met, in my head there were many others in the room along with us. And, they were all judging.

whiteheat2as4 “Top of the world, Ma,” cries James Cagney in one of the best gangster movies of all time, “White Heat.”

First and foremost, my parents, who’d have read me the riot act had they known what I was up to, particularly since, in the six months that I dated Jake, I never stepped foot in his bedroom. Then, there was my best friend, Liza, who was smarter and savvier than I, and almost certain to see my interest in James as a sign of inopportune weakness.

As for my other friends, whom I’d party and hang out with, I could feel their disapproving eyes boring tiny holes into my back. Had this been one of those James Cagney gangster flicks, you would’ve heard me yelling, “Top of the World, Ma!” as my parents and friends riddled me with bullets for bringing a pox upon all their houses.

So, for these reasons, I lived my double life. Publicly, I continued to meet up with my friends, have lunch with George, and have the occasional sleepover at Liza’s. At home, I was the dutiful (sort of) daughter, doing my chores and homework, while my mother sewed my dress for the prom.  And, whenever I could, I’d sneak off to see James. Yes, everything was going smoothly.

Until Max.

I hadn’t counted on Max.

Max was a senior and the only openly gay guy at my school. Jake somehow knew him and had introduced us one night, just before a school performance of the musical, Good News. Max, who had designed the scenery, and the show’s posters which had been plastered all over town, was backstage doing last minute makeup touches on the female lead.

Upon meeting me, he took hold of my face and, holding it up to the light, cheekily remarked, “Miss Thing, don’t ever wear blue eye shadow. It’s absolutely not your color.”

I wasn’t wearing any makeup that night, but I figured, he must know what he was talking about. Most days, Max came to school wearing tons of makeup. He’d keep it on until one of the teachers sent him to the men’s room to wash off. He’d oblige but, first chance he got, you’d find him back in the bathroom, reapplying it. Max never stopped testing the school’s boundaries, and would often end up in the principal’s office.

I didn’t know what to make of him, having never met anyone who seemed to enjoy calling as much attention to himself as he did. Without fear of consequence. When everybody else was trying to fit in, he was embracing his own flamboyant self.

And now, he was commanding me to spend the day with him in the city, and there was no turning him down.

“Miss Thing, what is wrong with you?” He cried in mock horror. “I can’t believe you haven’t been to any of the vintage clothing shops in East Village. Looks like I’m going to have to take you there myself! This weekend, no excuses. Trust me, you will love it!”

I was skeptical. I’d never gone into Manhattan with anyone outside my family, except Liza, and our favorite place to shop was Macy’s or Gimbel’s in Herald Square, so I didn’t know what to expect. But Max knew I had a thing for movies of the 30s and 40s, particularly the musicals, and I did love the style–padded shoulders, sweeping skirts and cocktail hats–so, maybe it would be fun.

While we stood in the school hallway finalizing plans, James happened by. Max waited expectantly for an introduction.

“So, whom do we have here, Miss Thing?” He tapped his foot, impatiently. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

I tensed up, as a sense of doom crossed my face. I wasn’t sure James could hold his own with Max. In some ways, James seemed too innocent.

Max glanced from me to James, and slowly, he nodded, as if things were beginning to gel.

“Oh, I see,” was all he said.

“Max,” I began to stammer. “This is–”

Max cut me off, taking matters into his own hands.

“Dear boy, I’m Max and believe me, the pleasure is all mine.”

James shrugged, muttering a casual, “Hey,” under his breath.

“This is James,” I intervened. “A friend from geometry. He sometimes helps me with homework assignments.” I was hoping my words would convince Max that there was nothing more than a distant connection between us.

“You mean he’s in that remedial class you’ve told me about?” Max nodded, seemingly going along with the bill of goods I was selling. “Now, why didn’t I sign up for that class, I wonder?”

I could tell James was feeling uncomfortable by his keen interest in him. Frankly, so was I.

“Well, then,” said Max, “I don’t suppose James would like to join us for our excursion Saturday?”

Getting together with James and Sam was one thing, but James and Max? Out of the question.

“Probably not a good idea,” I replied before James could say anything. His shyness seemed to have kicked in, full throttle.

“No?” He feigned a forlorn look. “How disappointing. Oh well, I guess I’ll leave you two alone. Seems the lad is eager to help you with, ahem–your homework?”

With a smile and a flick of his hand, he tipped the fedora he was wearing to one side, adding,

“Until Saturday, Dear Heart! I expect a full report on your–what was it? Oh, yes. Your homework!”

And, with that, he strode off, disappearing down the hall.

“Uh, that was weird,” said James, matter-of-factly.

The bell marking the start of the next period sounded. There’d be no time for explanations. I simply nodded in agreement, and headed to my class, wondering what Max had surmised about me and James. Could he tell there was something between us? Would he even care?

Knowing Max, I’d be in for a grilling.

(To be continued.)

Missed an installment? Catch up by visiting the page, Lightning in a Jar: High School Years.


Prisoner of Love

“My Men in Stripes” Revisited

When I first started blogging, my audience consisted of three friends, two relatives, my dog, Henry, and the lady who delivers my mail (on account that I would print my posts and discreetly leave them inside my mailbox, anonymously addressed to the Postmaster General). Of course, after a few weeks, I managed to alienate them all.

Yet somehow, despite myself, my readership grew over time. Which just goes to show you: Blackmailing people to get them to read your blog really works!

And, now that I have a couple dozen readers, I figure, it’s as good a time as any, to revisit some of my early posts, the ones I suspect many of you have yet to read, no matter how many arms I’ve twisted. Besides, with my daughter home for Spring Break, I’ve been crazy busy, with little time for blogging. So, I hope you enjoy reading my new and improved post on my Men in Stripes:

My friend, Sherri thinks I need to expand my options.  Which is why she says I should consider dating men who’ve made a killing—though not necessarily in the stock market. She’s talking men in stripes. Convicts. Felons. Jailbirds.

Or, as I prefer to call them, Prisoners of Love. Think Elvis Presley in Jailhouse Rock. According to Sherri, the possibilities are endless.

Lawbreakers, like Scott Petersen. Remember him? The guy with the bad hair dye and goatee, headed for the border when the police found him, and who was found guilty of killing his wife and unborn child? He’s now on death row. Then there’s Drew Peterson, whose fourth wife went missing back in 2007 and is in prison awaiting trial for allegedly killing his third wife.

Or actor, Robert Blake. Handsome once, but who now has a grim-reaper sort of look about him and shaved-off eyebrows. What a hunk! Ironically, he portrayed a murderer in the film, In Cold Blood. As it turns out, Blake was acquitted of murdering his second wife, though later found liable in a civil trial for her wrongful death.

Then there’s Grammy Award-winning producer, Phil Spector, serving 19 years in prison for second-degree murder of an actress in his home.  Apparently he’ll be eligible for parole when he’s 88.

And, of course, there’s the granddaddy of them all, O.J. Simpson. The man who started the trend of charmers who think they’re so cool they can’t be tethered down to a wife or girlfriend. Furthermore, these men–and their egos–think that breaking up with a woman will hurt her feelings, so better to snuff them out once and for all. Besides, divorce can take six months or more, and they can’t take the time to wait it out like normal people do.

So, I have to agree with Sherri. They’re worth considering.  Which is why I’ve decided, before I settle on just one of these rebels without a cause, I’m going to invite them all over for Sunday dinner.

I’ll prepare a fabulous meal, so they see how well I know my way around a kitchen. Maybe a pot roast will help me worm my way into their bleeding hearts, assuming none are vegans, that is. I’ll prepare the entire meal myself, which means this is not going to be a potluck. For, after seeing Shawshank Redemption and other prison flicks, I know what they serve in jail, and I prefer not having that sop at my table.

I’ll have to put away all the items around the house that can be used as weapons.  Phil may insist on wearing one of his striking wigs, which is okay with me as long as it isn’t that porcupine wig he wore during the trial and as long as he’s not hiding a knife or tweezers beneath it.  I’ll ask Robert to regale us with tales of his film and TV days and find out if he has any kiss-and-tell stories about Elizabeth Taylor, Debbie Reynolds or Truman Capote.

Since I don’t think Drew has had his trial yet, I’ll ask the other fellas to help brainstorm arguments for his defense.  I’m sure Scott will have a few tricks up his sleeve.  I’ll ask him, too, how his appeals are going, because I know that when you get the death penalty, there’s always a gazillion appeals. After all, I’ve seen Dead Man Walking.  Phil Spector will no doubt want to dance so I’ll put on some records and play songs produced by the man himself.

After dinner, Drew will help me with the dishes, while the other boys watch a prison movie, like White Heat and we’ll all yell “Top of the world, Ma!” when James Cagney is shot and goes up in flames.  I’ll then bring out a board game, like Clue, and, because of his temper, I’ll let O.J. win, when he deduces that Colonel Mustard killed Mr. Boddy with a gun in the conservatory. We’ll all have a good laugh over that one.

Finally, after we’ve had dessert (I’m thinking chocolate cake with toy guns and knives buried inside, for more laughs), we’ll play a round of spin the bottle.  And, as I look into the eyes of each of these hapless scoundrels, I’ll know which one is guilty. Guilty of stealing my heart, that is.  With any luck, I’ll be waiting a life sentence for a second date.